Where are those days now? What happens to the years? Are they piled and stacked somewhere? Does the dust fall on them now, or does it fall on them in their own time? Was it yesterday that disappeared? Or today? Or does nothing disappear – everything at every moment being re-absorbed into what is?

Make a den – somewhere to sit – be anything – play ghosts, have fears – cry, howk, tremble at the tilt of sunlight through cobwebs and flies’ wings.